“I hardly know the gnome.” His eyes were downcast, his manner shy.
“Scowl’s a stranger,” explained Lady Duck. She lowered her voice. “He’s one of the Accursed Gnomes, you know.”
“Accursed Gnomes?” Gnomish society was more complex than the Baron had realized. First the perverted Fang, and now this.
“The Accursed Gnomes sin against the sacred Examples, to their eternal shame.”
“Examples?”
“The Kikihuahua Examples, which is the gnomish code of behavior bequeathed to us by our ancestors, the kikihuahuas.” And as Lady Duck began to repeat the famous words the others joined in.
When the chant came to an end, Scowl alone continued. “Forgive us for our transgressions. We think we are right but we have no way of knowing. If we are wrong, we beg your forgiveness. Descendants, know that we tried in good faith.”
“You hear that?” said Lady Duck. “We don’t have to say that last part, because we don’t transgress anything. But the Accursed Gnomes do, and their souls will rot in hell.”
“Always provided that hell exists, of course,” qualified Scowl. “It’s a gamble we take. In all the travels of the kikihuahuas, hell has never been encountered. Or so our Memorizer tells us.”
“He could be lying,” said Spector. “Simply to put your minds at rest.”
“Our Memorizer never puts our minds at rest. His personality is somewhat similar to your Gooligog, here.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked the Gooligog furiously.
“The Gooligog is no longer our Memorizer,” said Spector, quick to sense the brewing of unpleasantness. “He has been deposed by his son, Fang. Replaced, I mean.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a miserable bugger, all the same,” Lady Duck pointed out. “And mark my words, Fang will go the same way!” She stared around at the gnomes triumphantly. “It’s in his genes!”
The Baron tried to get the discussion back on track. “If it’s such a risk,” he asked Scowl, “why do you work malleable substances?”
“Somebody has to take the chance,” said Scowl smugly.
“There’s no sense in us all breaking the Examples,” said Lady Duck. “So if a gnomish group needs, for instance …” She hesitated.
“To smooth out a rock wall,” said the Miggot quickly.
“Or to repair a plowshare,” said Spector.
“Or fashion a keel,” piped up Pong.
“… why, they call on the Accursed Gnomes,” said Lady Duck, relieved. “And the evil is contained within a small group, instead of spreading throughout gnomedom like, uh, ivy.” The others glanced at one another unhappily. The discussion was drifting into dangerous waters again.
“And will you always be Accursed, Scowl?” asked the Baron, amused.
“Until the end of Time,” said Scowl happily. “Ours is a reprehensible way of life, but necessary. Without us, the gnomish species would have become extinct long ago.”
“Their numbers are kept to a minimum,” ventured Bison, “and we rarely visit their foundries. We deal with their traveling tinkers, like Scowl.”
“We guard our secrets well,” said Scowl. “And our foundries make the most abominable stink.”
The discussion was interrupted by a roar of applause. Out on the field, Arthur held his sword high.
“Arthur’s won the foot-combat event,” Nyneve observed.
“Has he, now?” The Baron scanned the clearing thoughtfully. “What a clever fellow he is.” The archery event had paused while the contestants gathered around Arthur to add their congratulations. “He’s becoming quite the hero of the common people.”
“Yes, isn’t he.”
The gnomes exchanged glances and relaxed, glad that they were no longer the focus of the Baron’s attention. Arthur eased his way out of the crowd and ran lightly to the platform. He swept off his cap and bowed low. “My liege,” he murmured.
“Sarcastic young jackass,” muttered the Baron. Then, more loudly he said, “Come, join us. Find Arthur a seat at my side, Merlin.”
This infuriated the old wizard because the places of honor on either side of the Baron were occupied by Nyneve and himself. If someone had to step down, he knew it wouldn’t be Nyneve. “I would be delighted to offer you my place, Arthur,” he snarled, but brightened almost immediately as he realized that this would place Arthur next to Queen Margawse, his legendary lover. He caught the anxious expression on Nyneve’s face as the same notion occurred to her. Let the little minx stew for a while, he thought, and found himself a seat beside Morgan le Fay. “Hello, my dear,” he said.
Morgan, lips parted, was watching a jouster who lay motionless on the short grass, blood seeping from the joints in his armor. She glanced at Merlin absently. “Oh, it’s you. Do you have anything to drink in that bag of yours?”
“Potions, Morgan. The trappings of my calling.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She resumed her scrutiny of the unconscious man.
Meanwhile the Baron was congratulating Arthur. “A most impressive performance. I should like to invite you to the castle, Arthur. You have the makings of a knight. Do you joust too?”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Nyneve quickly. On the tourney field, the ironclad figure of Sir Mador hurtled toward the hapless Bors de Ganis. Sir Mador’s lance struck the other squarely in the chest, lifting him from the saddle and sending him crashing to the ground. “It’s not fair,” she said. “Sir Mador’s lance is much longer than anyone else’s.”
“He has the strength to hold it, my dear. Many don’t.” The Baron turned back to Arthur. “How would you rate your chances against Sir Mador, Arthur?”
Arthur regarded the Baron steadily. “Better than most.”
“So why don’t you enter the joust?”
“I have no horse or lance. I had intended to compete with the archers.”
“Come, now. Archery is for peasants. You strike me as a man born to greater things.”
Arthur smiled. “So Nyneve tells me. All right, then. Give me the loan of a horse and a lance, and I’ll compete.”
“And armor,” said Nyneve.
“I need no armor.”
“Then you’re a damned fool,” said the Baron. “But a brave one. There’s an injured man over there; it looks like Sir Bors de Ganis, another bloody Frenchman. You can use his equipment. He’s in no condition to object.”
“Shouldn’t someone be attending to him?” asked Nyneve.
“The French believe God takes care of them. They need no mortal help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Nyneve.
The Baron glanced at her, grinning. “I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies. In the east, it’s the Saxons who throw their weight about. At least the French have some dim idea of chivalry.” He ordered his bugler to halt the proceedings. As the rasping note died away he shouted, “Is there a healer in the forest?”
Merlin, aggrieved, said, “I’m a healer. Everyone knows that.”
“Then heal the Frenchman and be done with it, and let’s get on with the tourney.”
“Well, I can’t do it just like that, you know. There must be a laying-on of hands. I must murmur the enchanted words.”
“Then murmur them!”
“And the leeches.” Merlin took a gourd from his bag and shook the contents onto the gnomes’ table. The gnomes retreated as sluglike creatures milled around uncertainly, looking for something to suck. “I must apply the leeches.”
“What on earth for?” The Baron regarded the creatures with distaste.
“To cleanse the evil humors from the body.”
“Bors is a most pleasant fellow, for a Frenchman.”
“That’s a different kind of humor. You are not acquainted with the language of healing, Baron.” As Arthur, accompanied by Nyneve, left to prepare for the tourney, Merlin and the Baron strolled over to the unconscious figure. Attendants had by now stripped Bors naked. Merlin placed the leeches at strategic p
oints around the battered body. They began to suck, pulsing visibly. “You see?” said Merlin triumphantly.
“Erect a tent around him,” said the Baron, noticing the rapt gaze of Morgan le Fay, still fixed on the patient. “Even a Frenchman is entitled to his dignity.”
Meanwhile the gnomes were discussing Merlin’s methods. “I suppose those were leeches, weren’t they?” asked King Bison.
“Of course they were,” said the Miggot sharply.
Bart, sensing a rift in the solidarity of Mara Zion gnomedom, asked, “What else could they be?”
“Well …” said King Bison. “Of course, happentracks have joined and we’ve crossed over into this new world. … And so other things could have crossed over. …”
“What kind of other things?”
“Doodads!” cried Elmera. “I believe you’re right, Bison. They could have been doodads!”
“Doodads?”
“Horrible things.” Elmera shuddered. “Another of the Miggot’s mistakes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. What do you have to say to that, Miggot?” She wheeled around on her husband.
“The doodads fill an ecological niche,” said the Miggot with dignity. “I was perfectly correct to create them. The niche existed, and I filled it.”
“You didn’t have to fill it with such horrible things.”
“They bloody near killed the Sharan,” said Bison reminiscently. “The moment they were born, they turned on her.”
“The Sharan was never threatened. The doodad, handled properly, presents no danger to gnome or beast.”
By now Bart was beside himself with impatience. “But what are doodads?”
“You might compare them to the butterfly,” said the Miggot. “They feed on the seminal jelly of the cheesecup, and when the petal bowl of the plant is empty, they make their way to a female plant, and, er, fertilize it.”
“Disgusting!” cried Lady Duck.
“Sex among animals and plants is perfectly acceptable,” said the Miggot.
“Any mention of sex makes my blood run cold, Miggot, as well you know,” Elmera put in. “And I’m not the only gnome who feels that way, thank God! Change the subject before I throw up, will you?”
“Arthur has mounted his horse,” said Pong obligingly.
“By the Great Grasshopper, Pong,” screeched Elmera, “you’ve gone too far! I demand … Oh. I see what you mean.” Flushing, she turned her gaze to the tournament field.
At the eastern end of the clearing, Arthur sat easily on Sir Bors’s roan gelding, wearing everyday clothes as though hacking casually through the forest. A temporary squire handed him a lance. Even this was a rustic thing, little better than a pole. Arthur smiled and couched it. Nyneve passed him her scarlet sash and he wound it around his forearm. To the west, Sir Mador closed his visor and settled his lance firmly into position. At the far side of the field, a ballista demonstration was halted, much to the relief of the villagers, who had been watching missiles pass closely over the roofs of their cottages. The archers, normally scornful of the highborn knights, paused too. All heads turned to the field of battle.
Ned Palomides grumbled, “I was just getting my eye in.” Like the other Mara Zion archers, he had been faring badly in competition with the well-trained men from Menheniot village. “Why do we have to watch those posturing fools on their nags?”
“Arthur is jousting,” Gawaine said.
“Arthur is jousting, Arthur is jousting!” mimicked Palomides, in falsetto. “And what’s so bloody important about that?”
Gawaine laughed. “You have to admit archery’s a piddling sport compared with jousting. There’s something furtive about archery—the silent arrow, instead of the thunder of hooves and the honest, man-to-man collision.”
“Well, anyway, Arthur will lose, just like we’re losing. I don’t see why we have to witness a further disgrace. Just look at the man! He’s the most unlikely-looking jouster I’ve ever seen. He’s practically stark naked! One thing you could say for the late Tristan—at least he dressed the part.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling him the late Tristan, as though he were never on time,” said Torre irritably. “And you’re a fine one to talk about dressing for the part. You don’t exactly cut a fine figure on horseback, Ned.”
“It’s the type of man that goes in for jousting that I object to. Once they get up on that bloody horse with a spear in their hand, they seem to think they’re lords of creation. Tristan was just as bad as the rest.”
For once Ned had the support of the majority, and there were grunts of agreement from the gathering. The archers had always felt as though they operated in the shadow of the jousters at these events, and resentment had been festering for a long time. The award for overall champion of the tournament went to the top jouster, and this, too, angered the archers.
Thus the scene was set for a peculiar occurrence that became the main topic of fireside discussions in Mara Zion and Menheniot during the coming months. …
Nyneve resumed her place on the platform. “I simply don’t know what Arthur is thinking of,” she said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. Why is he doing this?”
“Jousters are the gentry,” said the Baron simply.
“Arthur doesn’t need to prove anything. He’s our future king.”
“He’ll have to get past Sir Mador first.”
Nyneve brightened a little. “We all know Sir Mador’s a formidable opponent, Baron. But haven’t you noticed luck just doesn’t seem to be running his way these days?”
The Baron merely smiled and motioned to his bugler. The clear tones sang across the field.
The horsemen urged their mounts forward.
Immediately the effect of Sir Mador’s equipment was apparent. His horse, so heavily armored that little more than hooves and ears were visible, lumbered heavily into a trot. Arthur’s roan, however, leapt smoothly to the gallop, rapidly closing the gap. The opponents clashed like rams in the rutting season, then they were past each other, both still firmly seated, reining in their mounts and turning.
“Arthur’s lance is broken!” cried Nyneve.
“I’m sure they can find him another,” the Baron reassured her.
But it seemed that Arthur did not want a replacement. He waved away the lance offered by his squire and drew his sword. From the distant archers came the faint cry of “Excalibur!”
“Much better than a lance,” said the Baron sarcastically. “According to legend, he is now unbeatable. Does he believe his own myth, Nyneve?”
Nyneve preserved an anxious silence as the contestants charged again. This time, however, Arthur’s mount was noticeably slower. Thus it was that by the time they came within range of each other, Sir Mador had attained a full and irresistible gallop. The long lance probed swiftly toward Arthur. The tip, stained with the blood of a hundred opponents, pointed a sharp and deadly finger. Arthur raised Excalibur.
Nyneve closed her eyes.
Arthur twisted sideways in the saddle. The lance missed, brushing his jerkin. Excalibur swept down, striking the hardwood lance with the flat of the blade and deflecting it downward. Sir Mador lurched forward, off-balance. The opponents passed each other. Arthur reined in his gelding.
The tip of Sir Mador’s weapon dug into the soft turf. His momentum carried him on, and he left the saddle, rising in a graceful arc at the end of his lance while the horse galloped from beneath him.
It would have brought the contest to a more seemly end if Sir Mador had then crashed to the sward in an untidy heap of flesh and iron. At least he could then have been carried off, honorably defeated. Some semblance of dignity would have been left to him. The name of Mador and his unidentified Porte would not have become the laughingstock of the west of Old England.
But Sir Mador’s run of bad luck was destined to continue. As he rose into the air, the lance still gripped firmly between arm and hip, his velocity diminished. At the
summit of his climb, all movement ceased. He hung there at the top of his lance, the tip buried firmly in the ground like a sapling recently planted.
“The bloody fool,” snapped the Baron, rather unfairly.
Nyneve stifled a giggle.
“He puts me in mind of a toffee apple, somehow,” observed Morgan le Fay.
“More like a monkey up a stick,” grumbled the Baron.
“Why doesn’t the poor man let go?” asked Margawse.
“In all that armor? He’d come down like a ton of rocks. No, he’ll have to wait for the soldiers to ease him down gently. Look, they’re on their way now.” A group of foot soldiers moved out onto the field with a noticeable lack of urgency. “Mador needs to pay a little more attention to our image,” said the Baron furiously, hearing laughter from the rescuers.
It was then that the inexplicable occurred.
The archers had been watching events quietly, not joining in the catcalls that had begun to emanate from the less responsible sections of the crowd. But now, as one man, they drew their bows and took careful aim.
A hail of arrows sped toward the perpendicular figure.
Yells of fear emanated from the encapsulated Sir Mador. Arrows clanged against his armor and he tried to curl himself into a ball like a threatened armadillo.
“What the hell are they playing at?” shouted the Baron. “Have they gone mad?” His gaze roamed furiously among his companions on the platform, seeking an answer to this mystery. “Why are they shooting at him?”
“I suspect it’s just because he’s there,” suggested Morgan le Fay with a wicked smile.
“What do you mean, because he’s there? What kind of a reason is that? This is war, for God’s sake! I’ve half a mind to order my soldiers to return their fire!”
“The poor man,” said Margawse. “Why doesn’t somebody help him?”
Nyneve said, “I think it all has something to do with him being stuck on top of the pole. He’s an irresistible target.”
“Somebody gave a command.” The Baron snarled. “That’s what happened. Somebody gave a command and they all obeyed like mindless bloody sheep. By Christ, they’re reloading. My own villagers are there too. They’re drunk, that’s what it is.” His fevered mind snatched at another explanation. “They’re all blind-stinking drunk!”
King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) Page 10